


I was born with a broken heart

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 3+1 times, F/M, Fluff (morning cuddles), Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 02, Sharing a Bed, Smut, canonverse, plenty of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Based on a headcanon of mine]</p><p>Aka the three times where Clarke and Bellamy use his bed for sleeping, and the one time they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I was born with a broken heart

**Ⅰ**

Tonight, Clarke finds that it takes longer than usual for the soft wind to bring her back to sanity as she wanders around the sleepy camp wide awake in circles, begging for the calming scent of pine trees to reach her nostrils. 

She came back three long weeks ago, dragging her dehydrated body through the gate; even with chapped lips and heavy eyelids, water wasn’t what she was longing for the most… Frankly, she hadn’t known what it was until the time upon her slow recovery where she’d seen _him_ be nothing but empty glares and bitter silence. 

Her throat manages to tighten at those memories, which she despite the fact that they’re the lone new ones she has of him, has tried her best to forget - tried to ignore - tried to convince herself that she is just imagining everything, because the Bellamy she’d known would’ve been happy to see her, not given her looks that would make her want to get the hell away again. Get the hell away from  _him._

It hadn’t taken her long to realize…

She’d lost him.

In a way that was even worse than death.

Although it’s pitch black outside, the stars having decided to hide, Clarke knows exactly when she plants a foot in front of his tent. Because she always stops here, for no longer than a moment. She has no idea why she does it, but this time is no exception. 

Instead of the usual, relaxed breathing that she has to actively listen for, he’s… _panting,_ desperately, and she immediately recognizes the fear in it that only nightmares cause, even when you are aware that it’s no more than that: a dream gone evil. 

Impulsively, her feet guide her through the tent flap so quickly that she hardly realizes it before she is faced with the sight: Bellamy is sitting on the edge of his bed, his whole body trembling underneath his ruffled clothes, head as heavy as his breath in his hands. 

For seconds, all that she can do is stare at him, lips slightly parted, however then he finally senses her presence, and she just about expects it; prepares herself for the hardest look the he has ever given her, but it’s not there…

In its place is a gaze that’s short while still impossible to identify because of the emotions within it. It should send her running, but instead it makes her heart shatter painfully, and she kneels down in front of him since her legs have turned weak from the fracture already. 

Clarke feels how all of his muscles tense at the second her arms wrap around him. It’s like holding a statue, yet he has to do a lot more if he truly wants her to let go. When he doesn’t, she sighs internally, her fingers traveling to the back of his head to pull it down further, towards her chest.

It is there that the first sob escapes him, deep and strangled. She knows that that it is far from the last, his body is filled with them, and they clearly hurt to hold back. Still, she doesn’t think he’ll let her hear the rest considering how much she doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to be trusted. Either she’s somehow wrong or he simply can’t keep it in anymore (she believes more in the second thing), because the next sob appears to be the leader of a whole line. Upon feeling him relax more, she starts rubbing his back carefully, and even though her voice is strained from her broken heart, she whispers: “I’m here. You’re not alone, I promise. God, I’m so sorry,” with a quiet sniffle, she presses a kiss to the shell of his ear.

It’s non-sense, really. All of it. And she can’t believe her own rudeness; deserting him after Mount Weather to come back and think that he still needs her; that he wants her to be there.

But as he pulls back, his dark eyes flickering open to stare right into hers, for the first time they’re not entirely resentful. Clarke only realizes that it has stunned her when the feeling of his breath ghosts over her lips… 

In spite of the darkness, she sees the lines from tears down his face and has to fight an urge to dry them away. 

“Goodnight, Bellamy,” she finally manages.

Surprisingly, his reply comes promptly: “No, stay here. There’s a reason why people walk around camp in the middle of the night,”

The makeshift bed is small, meant for one - therefore Clarke finds herself laying uncomfortably, a good portion of her body hovering over the edge.

* * *

 

To avoid the ruthless sun; heda of the heatwave, Clarke has found a nice spot by an old tree in the woods just beyond the gate, her golden hair tied up in a messy ponytail with a rubber band. 

By now, she feels like this place is her second home where she can briefly flee from the stress of having returned to camp, to her mother, who has been more of a shadow than a parent to her, never leaving her alone; not trusting her. 

Since her last charcoal has gotten lost, she’s carving a picture into a piece of fresh bark, trying to capture how the rays of sunlight create glowing marks on the dry ground. 

“Clarke?” The sound of her name on his lips had been impossible to forget during the months that she spent out here by herself. But it ceases to surprise her anyway.

She looks up at him standing above her, and when his breath flows into a relieved sigh that she knows she’s not supposed to hear, she forces a tiny smile.

“I - I just wanted to say… Thank you, for last night,” because it sounds so genuine, his voice not completely hiding emotion, it takes Clarke a few long seconds to reply: “You don’t have to be grateful,”

Bellamy sends her one look that speaks loudly:  _seriously?_ And she has to force herself to keep looking at him while she reminds him that he actually resents her. 

“Here,” he hands her a metal cup, “you look like you could use a drink,” really, no words in the world can describe the pain of the stab at her heart right at that, taking her back to Unity Day, which seems like ages ago; then, she’d seriously questioned whether or not he was flirting with her. Now, however, she does not even doubt that they’re miles from that - from each other. 

And it stays like that for a while, despite him sitting down next to her, but as soon as he starts to speak, she feels just a brush of what might be change: “It’s every night now, and it only gets worse…”

“… Until it controls you,” Clarke finishes for him, taking a huge gulp of her moonshine - if it’s because her body desires the taste, or simply a way to hide her nervousness as he stares at her, or perhaps both, she doesn’t know. 

“I thought you’d left again. How dare you scare me like that?”

 _Wait, I thought you didn’t care?_ She wants to say. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” is what she chooses, yet the other words must be written in her eyes, because he just furrows his eyebrows and replies, probably not knowing that the soft whisper will make her regret ever thinking otherwise: “Good, because I refuse to lose you again,”

_You never lost me - no, I lost you, Bellamy…_

Nearly overpowered by thoughts, is the offer that clearly is far from entirely based on his own need: “If you ever need a place to sleep, my tent flap is always open,”

* * *

 

**Ⅱ**

 

Moving the flap to the side, Clarke watches in awe as the streak of moonlight from outside illuminates the features of his face, painting them with a silvery glow. He looks so relaxed that she feels a sting of guilt because maybe he doesn’t need her here tonight, which simply means that she is going to do nothing except disturb him.

But the thought of returning to her dark tent, and even worse: a cold bed drives her to take the two steps it takes to get to his bedside from the tent opening.

 _Damn,_ she almost huffs when her eyes adjust to the darkness only to fall on the ten-inch space there is left next to him to squeeze into, _forget it._ It’s an impossible mission, especially if she doesn’t want to wake him. However, as soon as she has gotten over the bit of unwanted disappointment, turning towards the exit, Bellamy shifts to his side, flickering one eye open to look at what he figures is her hidden form in the dark tent. Without a single word or any hesitation, he scoots over, but surprisingly, to the left so that she can crawl in behind him from the front of the bed, no longer dangling over an edge. And right away, as she’s gotten comfortable, she starts to feel his chest slowly rising and falling against her spine.

Closing her eyes finally, the last thing she notices before drifting off, is his arm locked protectively around her waist perfectly matching the soft breath grazing her ear.

 

* * *

 

**Ⅲ**

When Clarke wakes up the next morning because of the sunshine having made its way through the tent, they are in a mess of limbs and sheets: her left leg caught between his, his arm resting loosely above the waistband of the pair of shorts she recently made from one of her three pairs of jeans - fingertips touching the skin that her t-shirt has scooted up to reveal. 

Also, sometime during the night, she must’ve shifted, because the first thing her eyes settle on is the small, white scar just underneath his lip. 

Since he appears to still be in deep sleep, she doesn’t prevent her fingertips from trailing his cheek and the skin beside his ear with feather-light touches like she’s finishing the last few details on a map. She knows that it’s not safe, but finds it irresistible when he lays there, calmer than ever, looking much younger without the concerned wrinkles in his forehead; as she traces over that, captivated, brushing away a stray curl, he opens his eyes.

She doesn’t even have time to draw her hand back and pretend that she wasn’t doing anything, still something tells her that that wouldn’t have made much of a difference, because he felt it. 

“Did you sleep well?” Trying to avoid any awkwardness by asking a question really doesn’t help much either, as her voice is weaker than she would like it to be. 

“Better than ever,” Bellamy replies, his own voice deeper from sleep - then, she senses his hand crawl up her spine slowly, continuing even though it embarrassingly causes her to shiver. Well, you could say that she deserved it.

 _What would it feel like if I wasn’t wearing this shirt?_ That thought has barely run through her mind before she pushes it aside and blames the heatwave for messing with her.

“How did you sleep?”

“Good,” is murmured against his fabric-covered shoulder when he easily tugs her closer, and she could’ve sworn that she heard him chuckle under his breath. At last, the little amount of space between them makes her realize how much she has missed his hugs despite the fact that she’s only experienced the sensation twice; the safety and warmth. Defying the temperature, Clarke wraps her arms around his much bigger frame, snuggling into his chest because he lets her. 

“I should really go,” she admits after a while, making no move to actually leave, which Bellamy also finds contradictory. He twists his head, lifting the weight of his chin off of her hair, saying: “But you don’t want to, do you?”

Shaking her head slightly, she inches closer, feeling him smile even though his face is further away than she would like it to be: “I thought you would be a morning-cuddler,”

 _Five more minutes,_ Clarke thinks when his fingers tangle in her hair, and she closes her eyes, _it is Unity Day after all._

* * *

 

**+1**  

Them sharing a tent becomes normal within the next couple of weeks, which means that Clarke doesn’t have to fear that her sneaking inside will wake him up. In fact, she doesn’t have to sneak anymore since he always waits to fall asleep until she’s there, no matter how tired he seems, but Clarke understands, knowing how much better the dreams get when the last thing she sees before letting them roll, is him. 

Every night, Clarke whispers things to him that she’s afraid to say when he can actually hear her; begs him to forgive her, because some part of her mind won’t ignore the possibility that the anger hasn’t gone away, rambles on about how much she’s missed him; her best friend, and even how she sometimes can’t see him like that anymore.

Not when his lips linger on her neck in the morning, or his fingers brush pieces of hair out of face. She asks the gods if she only imagines it - If it’s worth to take a risk in order to know if this is what she wants.

It only turns evident how much Bellamy is used to walking in and find an empty bed when he one night finds her in it instead, the black of her bra not quite hidden by the blanket. His eyes widen, his mouth still frowning slightly, yet Clarke only quirks up an eyebrow, challenging him: _come to bed._

“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” At that, she has to fight a blush, focusing on the fact that he seems genuinely pissed and something tells her that it isn’t because it bothers him.

“I am!” She exclaims innocently, “seriously, Bellamy? Can you blame me? It’s hot outside,”

Weirdly enough, as his frown deepens this time, she finds it amusing, following him with her eyes as he looks towards the tent flap at absolutely nothing. Again, she isn’t supposed to notice that he squeezes his eyes shut while biting his bottom lip a little, but it causes her heart to stop for a moment or two. Then, he gets it to race once more by saying, secretly mocking her bad excuse: “The temperature has fallen remarkably since sunset, Clarke,”

“So what? Is it a problem?” Teasing confidently, she casts a glance at her clothes on the floor. Now, something apparently flicks in Bellamy’s mind because he walks to the middle of the tent, shaking his head, however to elaborate he says: “No… But if I didn’t know better,” as he works on undoing the buttons on his shirt, he only looks at her for the total of three milliseconds, “I would assume that you were trying to seduce me,” his words slow incredibly when he shrugs it off, revealing how his bare chest looks like from the side. Obviously she’s seen it before, during those first days down here where he was rocking that shirtless style. Yet this is much different, because this time it’s only for her to see, and although she’s aware that she shouldn’t, she cannot stop staring at him.

Even upon him having turned around to face her, hands resting on his hips, she hasn’t averted her eyes. At least, they dart to his face, seeing him raise an eyebrow higher than she though was humanly possibly. It’s almost like he wants her to feel ashamed, and she really does. Oh how it would’ve been nice if she’d had the ability to rewind time, so that she could go back and punch herself in the face for wanting to go through with this; heck, for going as far as to think about it.

“And if it happens that you never wanted to seduce me, then please tell me if your intension is to torture me _all over again_ ,” he doesn’t apply pressure to that last part, yet it continues to be what stands out to her: _all over again. I caused him so much pain._  

“No,” is all that she can manage, keeping her eyes on him while he steps towards the bed. The fact that he doesn’t lay down next to her makes her stomach do somersaults. Instead, he sits on his knees at the end, right by her feet.

“Then what?” Yes, Bellamy furrows his eyebrows as he would’ve usually done, though not quite enough for her to think that he actually questions it. He kept babbling about her intensions with this, as if his own were completely blameless; they’re not: All that he wants is her admitting how weak she is for wanting him, and that makes her feel sick.

“You already know. You’re not stupid. Not when it comes to me, either,” 

For a whole minute, dark brown eyes meet ocean blue, troubling her breathing a little because she thinks that this is finally it: that he’s going to stop playing the antagonist to her protagonist. He lays down beside her, and she realizes that she was indeed wrong.

_Or what?_

Fingers resting on her jawline, he turns her head, so that she unwillingly looks at him: “Clarke, _I’m_ not going to kiss _you_ ,” at first, she frowns deeply, wondering why he thinks it’s necessary to humiliate her more. The pressure, however, is what keeps her from completely scowling at him. There’s a chance that she could be wrong; that this isn’t Bellamy’s weird way of saying: _kiss me_ , but she decides that things can’t possibly become worse and goes for it: takes the last two inches of space between their faces slowly, pausing to flicker her eyes to his before taking the second. Instantly, her stomach tightens in a knot only to detangle itself once more when she gets the reaction she was hoping for: his chapped lips welcome hers with a passion that he has been extremely good at hiding. After a few seconds, he breaks away slowly, looks into her eyes briefly for reassurance and kisses her, his mouth probably moving softer than her own had done, which makes her realize: _he just needed permission._

The thing, as untrue and sugarcoated as it may seem, is that they kiss one another as if it is the first time they’ve ever kissed anyone; experimenting until they find something that feels perfect: his hand safely around her waist, which is something that she has gotten used to, her hand combing through his messy hair even though he chuckles against her mouth because of it. Over all, it is far from perfect actually, but it’s harmless. Well, up until she finds Bellamy on top of her, trailing kisses down her neck and the hollow of her throat, earning a low whimper from her.

It doesn’t take him long to get the blanket off of her; though as soon as it unveils her underwear, he makes a strangled noise that is suspiciously similar to a groan. Kissing her, he lets his hand travel down the hot skin of her stomach. Oh, and there it was at last: the actual groan.

“God, how long have you been waiting for me here?”

“Long enough,” is her simply reply, since she can’t control her breathing to the point that it takes to be able to form a full sentence. When he doesn’t say anything, mouth occupied just below the band of her bra, she pulls herself together: “Are you up for the challenge or not? Because I refuse to mess around like this for nothing,” 

“What challenge?” His eyes twinkle playfully as they meet hers. Smiling, he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. 

“Come on, Bellamy. There isn’t much clothes to take off,” 

“Patience is a virtue,”

 Rolling her eyes, she knows that he will take that back when she’s taken off her bra, yet she allows herself to enjoy the sweet kisses that he marks her skin with. Actually, she gives into that want too, on his shoulder, on his neck and on his face, discovering how much she needs it to be like this. That everything that they’ve been through after she came back, especially thinking he would hate her forever has just made the feeling of love even more crucial.

He accepts the challenge abruptly, and during the time that it takes Clarke to blink, they have both been stripped down to nothing. Perhaps the temperature has dropped outside, it’s rising in the tent nevertheless, triggering her to almost feel embarrassed of how sweaty she is, but then she moves her hands to his ribcage to support him between her legs and finds him dealing with the same problem.

Bellamy pushes into her slowly after she tells him that it’s been a while, allowing her to adjust, and he tries his best to kiss her as he does so, however in between her gasps, it quickly turns awkward, if not unnecessary, so his lips move to her neck where they begin to suck gently on her pulse point. 

The way that he hisses as she rolls her hips against his to meet his thrusts, his head falling heavily on her shoulder spills that it’s been a while since he has had sex too, which shouldn’t surprise her given how much Bellamy has changed from that cocky asshole. Anyway, it kinda does. As he mumbles an apology into the skin of her collarbone, Clarke only giggles affectionately, pressing a kiss to the only place she can currently reach: the side of his neck. 

Her first orgasm actually comes like a bit of a surprise; it’s small but enough for Bellamy to take his efforts up a notch, and the second one washes over her in strong waves. _Damn, she’d always thought that they were overrated._

It hits her afterwards that this is the longest time they have been in a room alone together and not talked at all. Which ceases to make her a bit emotional, because even with the abundance of meaningful silences they’ve had: the ones that make out their relationship, this has got to be the best one. 

“I wasn’t your first, was I?” He asks, drawing random patterns on her breast with a fingertip while trying to catch his breath.

“No,” assuming from the look on his face that she doesn’t have to tell him who, she continues hesitatingly: “But you were my first something though,”

 _Why?_ The nineteen year old girl, who still lives somewhere inside of her doesn’t want to tell Bellamy that he’s the first person to give her an orgasm. Therefore, when she finally does, she immediately lists it as one of the bravest things she has done on Earth.

They rest in each others arms for a while, enjoying the silence until Bellamy breaks it: “Remind me that the next time we’re doing this, it is not going to be in the middle of a freaking heatwave,” 

Couldn’t agree more on that, she thinks, snuggling closer to him.

It’s good though.

No, it’s more than good… 

It’s… _Perfect._

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from: Belong by Cary Brothers


End file.
